


Veritas per Somnum

by Tuttle4077



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29701107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuttle4077/pseuds/Tuttle4077
Summary: Hogan reflects on his sleeping men
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Veritas per Somnum

There were nights when Hogan's brain refused to be quiet. Like fire burning bright, his thoughts lit every corner of his mind, driving away the shadows of sleep. He tried to ignore it, ordered it to stop, but his subconscious kept feeding the flames with wild scenarios: all the what ifs, the could have beens, the will bes.

He had yet to find an effective strategy to fight against it. Sometimes he buried his head into his pillow and stubbornly squeezed his eyes tightly shut, pretending to sleep and hoping if he tried hard enough, his brain would eventually get the hint.

Other times he would lay on his back, peering through the darkness at his ceiling. He knew every knot, every ripple, every rough patch in the wooden beams and plywood above him.

There were nights that he gave up completely and crawled out of bed, sat at his desk, and read his Bible by candlelight. The comfort he found in his favourite passages calmed his fears and he often fell asleep. But at his desk. And in the morning he would find himself with a backache and a stub of a candle.

When his thoughts were particularly grim, he would venture out of his room and make himself something to drink- preferably cocoa if he still had some, but weak tea would do in a pinch. As he drank, he would count his men, lean in close to hear their breath, and then count them again. Just to make sure they were all there. That they were all still alive. That he hadn't failed them- yet.

Tonight was one of those nights. Newkirk had come back from a mission with a nasty gash on his upper arm thanks to a wild spray of gunfire from a jumpy patrol. He was lucky. But it could have been worse. Much worse. And it led Hogan to second guess his decision to send him out, the importance of the information he had obtained, and all the terrible what ifs that could have turned everything upside down.

So tonight, Hogan quietly crept out into the common room. His men snored softly, unaware of him or his unpleasant thoughts. There was enough light from the small fire in the stove to guide his way as he fixed himself some cocoa.

Drink in hand, Hogan began his silent rounds. He stopped when he got to LeBeau.

The tiny corporal slept fitfully. He tossed and turned and muttered angry words that Hogan didn't understand. Even in his sleep, LeBeau was always fighting. Hogan often wondered who he was fighting tonight. The Germans? Newkirk? Or perhaps a distorted version of himself? Hogan knew LeBeau struggled with feelings of inadequacy. Had his fears and anxieties converged to form a hideous monster with LeBeau's own face?

In stark contrast to LeBeau, his bunkmate, Kinch, was still and quiet. Kinch was a man at peace with himself despite any turmoil around him. Hogan stood close and listened to the sound of his breathing. In and out. In and out. Ever so steady. It was comforting and as he listened, Hogan felt some of his stress dissipate. Funny how Kinch was constantly lightening his load, even when he was unconscious.

Carter, as always, was curled up in a tight ball, his blanket tucked under his chin and his knees close to his chest. It was like he was trying to hide, to make himself as small as possible. It didn't seem to fit in with the dopey, loquacious persona he portrayed during the day. Hogan had to wonder if all that talking Carter did was some sort of act.

In the bunk above him, Newkirk slept on his stomach. Even in his sleep, he wouldn't let himself be vulnerable. He protected the soft areas of his body just as much as he did the soft parts of his heart. It had taken quite a while for Hogan to earn his trust and still Newkirk acted like an abused dog- quick to growl and snap; always expecting a kick instead of a well-deserved belly rub.

Finishing off his cocoa, Hogan made one last round through the room. When he was satisfied that everyone was alive he slipped back into his own room. Slowly he climbed back into his bunk and stared up at the ceiling.

Hogan wondered what he looked like when he was sleeping. No matter how good of a spy he was, even he couldn't keep his mask on all the time. What did he reveal about his true self when his eyes were closed?

He didn't know. And, with his own quarters, he was sure no one else did either.

With that thought quieting all others in his mind, Hogan fell fast asleep.


End file.
